on the whole, sad. `Our hermit's life', she used
to say. No doubt she had suffered in her mother's home in Geneva
from an excess of caprice and lack of foresight. But she, together
with her brother, had acquired there habits of frivolous gaiety
that had no scope in Elbeuf.
For me, who spent the whole day in an office between the blue blouse
of Pere Martel and the grumbling of my partners, to come home at
mealtime and find beneath a bower of lime trees a fresh and ravishing
young woman in a bright dress, always ready to listen to me or
to love me, was delightful. For her these hours of intimacy were
separated by the vast desert of the days. What could she do? She
did not get along with my mother as well as I had hoped. She admired
her virtues and respected her, but she suffered from a feeling
of being constantly supervised and she sensed a constant unexpressed
criticism which disturbed and chilled her. Completely engrossed
in her charities, my mother would have liked a daughter-in-law
capable of helping her in managing them. Janine was too young,
too lacking in patience. She liked my father very much and sometimes
accompanied him on the piano in the evenings when he sang Les Cloches
de Corneville or Le Petit Duc, but he was at the mill all day long,
and moreover he was too old and too reserved to be her confidant.
It took her a long time to form friendships with the young women
of Elbeuf. Two of them, my cousin Olga and the wife of my friend,
Jean Legrix, could have and should have been congenial. But beneath
her detached and almost haughty manner, Janine was shy. She stayed
at home and was bored.
If I attempt after thirty years to imagine what impression our
family life made on Janine, I think she must have felt great amazement
and, on some occasions, fear. All was honour, work and austerity,
but we lived there, she and I, beneath the constant menace of Things
Not Said. Mute monsters floated invisibly amid our vases of flowers
and our shelves of books. My family surrounded us with melancholy
reticences and unexpressed reservations. There were days on which
Janine felt herself blamed without knowing why, and on these occasions
I would say to her that to question my parents about it was inconceivable.
Repression, which in the Freudian doctrine serves principally to
conceal impulses of sensuality, in our household also hid shades
of feeling, wounded pride and conflicting ideas. Nothing was openly
expressed and for that reason everything took on a disproportionate
importance. Experience was to show the dangers

travel books:
where is HTML
where is HEAD
where is TITLE on what is whole, sad. `Our hermit's life', she used to say. No doubt she had suffered in her mother's home in Geneva from an excess of caprice and lack of foresight. But she, together with her brother, had acquired there habits of frivolous gaiety that had no scope in Elbeuf. For me, who spent what is whole day in an office between what is blue blouse of Pere Martel and what is grumbling of my partners, to come home at mealtime and find beneath a bower of lime trees a fresh and ravishing young woman in a bright dress, always ready to listen to me or to what time is it me, was delightful. For her these hours of intimacy were separated by what is vast desert of what is days. What could she do? She did not get along with my mother as well as I had hoped. She admired her virtues and respected her, but she suffered from a feeling of being constantly supervised and she sensed a constant unexpressed criticism which disturbed and chilled her. Completely engrossed in her charities, my mother would have liked a daughter-in-law capable of helping her in managing them. Janine was too young, too lacking in patience. She liked my father very much and sometimes accompanied him on what is piano in what is evenings when he sang Les Cloches de Corneville or Le Petit Duc, but he was at what is mill all day long, and moreover he was too old and too reserved to be her confidant. It took her a long time to form friendships with what is young women of Elbeuf. Two of them, my cousin Olga and what is wife of my friend, Jean Legrix, could have and should have been congenial. But beneath her detached and almost haughty manner, Janine was shy. She stayed at home and was bored. If I attempt after thirty years to imagine what impression our family life made on Janine, I think she must have felt great amazement and, on some occasions, fear. All was honour, work and austerity, but we lived there, she and I, beneath what is constant menace of Things Not Said. Mute big s floated invisibly amid our vases of flowers and our shelves of books. My family surrounded us with melancholy reticences and unexpressed reservations. There were days on which Janine felt herself blamed without knowing why, and on these occasions I would say to her that to question my parents about it was inconceivable. Repression, which in what is Freudian doctrine serves principally to conceal impulses of sensuality, in our household also hid shades of feeling, wounded pride and conflicting ideas. Nothing was openly expressed and for that reason everything took on a disproportionate importance. Experience was to show what is dangers
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Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" Call No Man Happy (1943)
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where is p align="justify" on what is whole, sad. `Our hermit's life', she used
to say. No doubt she had suffered in her mother's home in Geneva
from an excess of caprice and lack of foresight. But she, together
with her brother, had acquired there habits of frivolous gaiety
that had no scope in Elbeuf.
For me, who spent what is whole day in an office between what is blue blouse
of Pere Martel and what is grumbling of my partners, to come home at
mealtime and find beneath a bower of lime trees a fresh and ravishing
young woman in a bright dress, always ready to listen to me or
to what time is it me, was delightful. For her these hours of intimacy were
separated by what is vast desert of what is days. What could she do? She
did not get along with my mother as well as I had hoped. She admired
her virtues and respected her, but she suffered from a feeling
of being constantly supervised and she sensed a constant unexpressed
criticism which disturbed and chilled her. Completely engrossed
in her charities, my mother would have liked a daughter-in-law
capable of helping her in managing them. Janine was too young,
too lacking in patience. She liked my father very much and sometimes
accompanied him on what is piano in what is evenings when he sang Les Cloches
de Corneville or Le Petit Duc, but he was at what is mill all day long,
and moreover he was too old and too reserved to be her confidant.
It took her a long time to form friendships with what is young women
of Elbeuf. Two of them, my cousin Olga and what is wife of my friend,
Jean Legrix, could have and should have been congenial. But beneath
her detached and almost haughty manner, Janine was shy. She stayed
at home and was bored.
If I attempt after thirty years to imagine what impression our
family life made on Janine, I think she must have felt great amazement
and, on some occasions, fear. All was honour, work and austerity,
but we lived there, she and I, beneath what is constant menace of Things
Not Said. Mute big s floated invisibly amid our vases of flowers
and our shelves of books. My family surrounded us with melancholy
reticences and unexpressed reservations. There were days on which
Janine felt herself blamed without knowing why, and on these occasions
I would say to her that to question my parents about it was inconceivable.
Repression, which in what is Freudian doctrine serves principally to
conceal impulses of sensuality, in our household also hid shades
of feeling, wounded pride and conflicting ideas. Nothing was openly
expressed and for that reason everything took on a disproportionate
importance. Experience was to show what is dangers
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